


Andruil's Grace

by delazeur



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fenris is full of shame, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Skinny Dipping, Spider guts are super gross, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/pseuds/delazeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on kink meme prompt, cross-posted with minor edits:</p>
<p>Fenris catches F!Hawke bathing...</p>
<p>... and jerks off watching her.</p>
<p>Mage or rogue Hawke preferred.</p>
<p>Bonus cookies if Fenris spies her bathing in the wild, and compares her to some elvhen nature goddess...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andruil's Grace

“Dwarf. It is your watch.” Fenris’ bare foot nudged Varric’s elbow where it extended from out of his blankets, thick fingers curled around the stock of his crossbow. Even after they, dwarf and crossbow together, had saved his life numerous times in the Deep Roads, Fenris refused to think of it as ‘Bianca’. It made him uneasy, giving a weapon a name, a persona. It reminded him of who he used to be, slave, a living weapon, wielded with as much skill and relish by his former master as the dwarf used the crossbow. Fenris was a man, and a weapon was a tool. They should not be confused. 

The dwarf rolled out of his blankets with a grunt, scrubbing at his stubbled chin, and then scratching at his exposed chest. His eyes flicked up to Fenris. “Your face is gonna freeze that way, elf. All those ladies waiting to have your broody babies are going to be disappointed with the scowl and the spider guts all over you.” His smile became sly. “I’m on watch. Go clean yourself up or find someplace to sleep downwind.” 

Fenris snorted and turned away but his fingers came up to his face and then minced over his hair, now stiffened with the dried viscera of several extremely dead giant spiders. Camp had been made hastily after they cleared the cave. They’d dragged Hawke out, suspended between the abomination and Isabela, Varric leading and Fenris following in rear guard. He looked down at his feet, still spattered where he had stepped through puddles of Hawke’s blood that pooled on the cave floor. He grimaced against the memory of her pale skin rent and stained with a mixture of ichor and blood along her side, white bone of her ribs showing through before the apostate had cleaned and closed the wound. They had all collapsed into their blankets after that, except for Fenris, too unsettled to do anything but sit and… think. There had definitely been no brooding. 

During his watch he had cleaned his armor and his sword, but the drying gore that still painted his skin was stiff and beginning to itch. The site they camped in was close to a stream with a wide, deep pool, one of the reasons they used it regularly. One of the reasons they had to kill bandits who squatted there regularly. He nodded to Varric as he headed down the path toward the sound of water. 

It was a clear night, colder than it would be in Tevinter this late in Moliaris, but he would brave the chill air and the cold water to be clean. There were few things worse smelling than Fenris at the moment. Like the abomination’s clinic after an outbreak of dysentery in Darktown. Or Hawke’s dog after chasing Coterie into the sewers. Or fish. The half moon was more than enough light for his eyes to find the path, and when he reached the pool he picked his way to a mossy bank overhung by scrubby willows and choked with ferns before he shucked out of his armor. He unsheathed his sword and placed it on the bank within easy reach before lowering himself into the water. 

He hated when they hunted on the days it was hot, the air full of dust and grit, sweat causing the grime to cling and muddy on his skin. This pool was a temptation, when Hawke and Isabela would pelt down the path, laughing like maniacs and wrestling out of their clothes before they even reached the water’s edge. The first time he had walked the path after them, wondering at the bemused shake of Varric’s head or the hungry, haunted smirk that the abomination wore, he had stumbled to a stop when he realized he was standing amidst a pile of Hawke’s leathers. Just through the screening undergrowth he caught a flash of white skin. He’d turned immediately and marched back to camp. He had resisted the urge to break the mage’s nose when he murmured, as Fenris shouldered past, “It really isn’t something you should turn down. Those two, bendy as Antivan acrobats, and Isabela really likes it when she has an audience.” 

Fenris’ imagination was happy to supply what the cursed mage had probably enjoyed that day, and any other in which their treks over the foothills of Sundermount caused Hawke to drag them to this camp, with its blighted swimming hole. Once when the blood witch had been with them she’d prattled about the pool being sacred to Andruil and the elvhen mistress of the hunt’s love of hawks. “Isn’t that lovely, Hawke, that you’re Hawke, and you love this stream and it’s Andruil’s and she loves hawks? She loves hares too, but you’re not much like a rabbit, are you. Well, except you’re very fast. And quiet. But rabbits don’t jump out of shadows to kill things. Hawks do. Except for the shadow part, I suppose.” 

Hawke had swept Merrill up over her shoulder, and taken off for the swimming hole at a run, cackling madly and the Dalish witch giggling. The witch wasn’t the least perturbed that Hawke and Isabela seemed to enjoy much more than swimming in the waters.

The pads of Fenris’ fingers worked the crusted filth out of his hair and then off his face and neck. He carefully cleaned under his nails, and scooped a handful of coarse sand from the stream bed to scour the blood from the cracked callouses of his hands and feet, continuing until the skin on his palms and fingertips was stinging and tender. Clean as he would get without hot water and soap, he levered himself out of the water to sit on the moss and drip in the chill air. 

The image of Hawke’s bare torso smeared in blood overlays with his memory of that glimpsed flash of pale skin through the trees. Fenris let his eyes unfocus, no longer searching the shifting shadows and dappled light of the pool for threats. Hawke. He has not been a free man long enough to know his own mind when it comes to her. The soft smirks she cast at him from under the fringe of her dark hair. The glinting of her blue eyes when she caught him watching her as she sucked the gold stud out of Isabela’s lip and then presented it to her from between her teeth with a wicked grin. Did he follow her simply because he desired to be led? Would he want her otherwise? He felt his cock begin to stir despite the chill, and reached down to palm it against the warmth of his thigh. 

A flash of white in the shadows near the path caught Fenris’ attention and he reached for his sword without thought, though his free hand remained on his slowly warming length. His eyes found and resolved the shape into her. Hawke. She was silent as she stepped over the log that crossed the end of the foot path; she was always silent unless she wanted to be heard. She pulled her long, wicked daggers from their sheaths on her back and set them carefully on the edge of the stream, as he had with his sword. Fenris’ lips curved up at the corners, feeling a flush of warmth, something like pride, but closer to recognition. They were both predators in their ways. 

Something in Fenris’ mind must have gone quiet because he simply sat there, watching her shrug out of the harness that held her weapons before she set it carefully aside. She was deliberate as she unlaced her tunic and pulled it off over her head with a muttered curse that Fenris could barely hear. Her body was still smeared with her own blood, spider ichor, and dirt. They were black patches and streaks contrasted on her skin, pale and almost glowing in the moonlight. It was when she pushed her trousers and smallclothes down in one emphatic sweep, accompanied by another grunt of discomfort that he realized what he was doing. 

Half-hard now and growing harder, Fenris rubbed his hand against his cock while he tried to find a way out of this situation that did not end in him being stabbed by Hawke. It was one thing for her to flirt and tempt. It was another thing entirely to watch her unknowing, and.. venhedis she unlatched her breastband, letting it drop to the pebbled shore at her feet. He closed his fingers around the throbbing in his groin and gave a slow pull. 

The silver sheen of the moonlight on the water was shattered as Hawke dove into the pool. Even recovering from injury she moved with deadly precision, all the lines of her body drawn taut as a bow as they disappeared beneath the surface. The skin of Fenris’ hand tugged with a slightly tacky friction against the soft skin under it, residual dampness from his bathing, but not wet enough to be slick. It was a discomfort he accepted, deserved maybe, for skulking in the shadows while he wanted what he was too hesitant to take. 

When Hawke surfaced she floated on her back, spine curved and head arched back, breasts and the curve of her ribs silvered with water and light. Even if there had been no moon, Fenris would have been able to see some nuance of shadow and shape, but with it half-full he could see the droplets on her skin and the tight, hard peaks of her nipples. He ran his tongue between his lips. What would she taste like? Salt and copper from the fight or something else? Sweet with musk, but tart. The length of Fenris’ cock strained toward his belly as he shifted to kneel. When he closed his fingers back around it, gripping the ache and the want in his fist, he rutted against his palm and then steadied himself. 

Twisting like a otter, Hawke sleeked back beneath the water and Fenris allowed himself a low growl. It was hoarse and hungry, and the sting of the friction in his palm was matched by the shame that burned in his ears. This was a slave’s place, on his knees, wanting. Full of mistrust of those wants, waiting for them to be turned against him as soon as he admitted them. He continued to pull mercilessly at his shaft, twisting slightly as he reached the head. He flicked his fingers over the slit, smearing the hot liquid that gathered there over the skin, felt it cool and prickle in the night air. 

When Hawke breached the surface she faced away from him, standing in the shallows, legs shoulder width apart. The water lapped just at the top of her thighs and when she bent forward to work her fingers in her hair, scooping handfuls of water up over the back of her neck and letting it run down, Fenris could see the dark thatch between her legs, the slightly spread cleft of her ass. 

Fenris leaned forward, steadying himself with one hand on the ground in front of him, the other working his cock harder as his balls tightened up toward the shaft and the coiled heat in his belly became the only thing he cared about. He kept his head up, staring at the shadows that hid Hawke’s damp slit, imagining his hand was her as he thrust into his palm and finally came. His breath hissed through his throat in an unvoiced moan, a ragged huff of air, that wouldn’t be heard above the stirring of the wind in the trees or the rush of the stream where it entered the pool. His spend puddled on the moss beneath him before soaking in, and he sank back on his haunches. 

“Hawklet, are you down here?” Hawke’s head came up quickly, a shower of water shaking out of her cropped black hair, and as she stood there, startled and frozen for just a moment like a rabbit ready to bolt. Hawk and hare, beloved of Andruil, laughing as she stumbled out of the water into Isabela’s warm, brown arms. “There’s my sweet girl. Have you seen Fenris?” 

Fenris felt that ugly flush again, bitterness on his tongue, the illusion that she was his shattered. His shoulders heaved as he tried not to pant, fought back the tide of anger that begged him to lash out. He could not hear what Hawke said when she pressed her mouth against Isabela’s ear, but the other woman laughed throatily and clutched her close, spinning her so that she was shielded from his gaze by the pirate’s lusher curves. Hawke rested her chin on Isabela’s shoulder and her mouth curved in a soft, secret smile, eyes closed. 

When they opened she was looking directly at the shadowed pocket where Fenris still knelt, breath frozen in his chest, eyes unblinking. Her fingers lifted from where they clutched over Isabela’s tunic at the small of her back. Those fingers waved, a slow wagging, a coy greeting, while she hid her face in the tousled fall of hair on the other woman’s neck.

She was the hawk. 

He was the hare, hunted, and maybe this was the night she’d caught him.


End file.
